"What's the difference? She doesn't change the play, I suppose?"

"No. But naturally on the first night she wants all her friends to come up to the scratch, muster round--don't you know?--and give her a hand."

"And she thinks your hand, being enormous, would be valuable? But we can't throw over Brayley House."

Lord Holme's square jaw began to work, a sure sign of acute irritation.

"If there's a dull, dreary house in London, it's Brayley House," he grumbled. "The cookin's awful--poison--and the wine's worse. Why, last time Laycock was there they actually gave him--"

"Poor dear Mr. Laycock! Did they really? But what can we do? I'm sure I don't want to be poisoned either. I love life."

She was looking brilliant. Lord Holme began to straddle his legs.

"And there's the box!" he said. "A box next the stage that holds six in a row can't stand empty on a first night, eh? It'd throw a damper on the whole house."

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand. What box?"

"Hang it all!--ours."

"I didn't know we had a box for this important social function."

Lady Holme really made a great effort to keep the ice out of her voice, but one or two fragments floated in nevertheless.

"Well, I tell you I've taken a box and asked Laycock--"

The reiterated mention of this hallowed name was a little too much for Lady Holme's equanimity.

"If Mr. Laycock's going the box won't be empty. So that's all right,"

she rejoined. "Mr. Laycock will make enough noise to give the critics a lead. And I suppose that's all Miss Schley wants."

"But it isn't!" said Lord Holme, violently letting himself down at the knees and shooting himself up again.

"What does she want?"

"She wants you to be there."

"Me! Why?"

"Because she's taken a deuce of a fancy to you."

"Really!"

An iceberg had entered the voice now.

"Yes, thinks you the smartest woman in London, and all that. So you are."

"I'm very sorry, but even the smartest woman in London can't throw over the Brayley's. Take another box for the second."

Lord Holme looked fearfully sulky and lounged out of the room.

On the following morning he strode into Lady Holme's boudoir about twelve with a radiant face.

"It's all right!" he exclaimed. "Talk of diplomatists! I ought to be an ambassador."

He flung himself into a chair, grinning with satisfaction like a schoolboy.

"What is it?" asked Lady Holme, looking up from her writing-table.

"I've been to Lady Brayley, explained the whole thing, and got us both off. After all, she was a friend of my mother's, and knew me in kilts and all that, so she ought to be ready to do me a favour. She looked a bit grim, but she's done it. You've--only got to tip her a note of thanks."

"You're mad then, Fritz!"

Lady Holme stood up suddenly.

"Never saner."

He put one hand into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out an envelope.

"Here's what she says to you."

Lady Holme tore the note open.

"BRAYLEY HOUSE, W.

"DEAR VIOLA,--Holme tells me you made a mistake when you accepted my invitation for the first, and that you have long been pledged to be present on that date at some theatrical performance or other.

I am sorry I did not know sooner, but of course I release you with pleasure from your engagement with me, and I have already filled up your places.--Believe me, yours always sincerely,

"MARTHA BRAYLEY."

Lady Holme read this note carefully, folded it up, laid it quietly on the writing-table and repeated:

"You're mad, Fritz."

"What d'you mean--mad?"

"You've made Martha Brayley my enemy for life."

"Rubbish!"

"I beg your pardon. And for--for--"

She stopped. It was wiser not to go on. Perhaps her face spoke for her, even to so dull an observer as Lord Holme, for he suddenly said, with a complete change of tone:

"I forgave you about Carey."

"Oh, I see! You want a _quid pro quo_. Thank you, Fritz."